


The Great Sherlock Holmes

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossroads Deals & Demons, M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson remembers demons from his last few days in Afghanistan; monstrous, evil, unfathomably cruel. He also knows that they make deals- at a price of course, but they make them if you call them at the crossroads...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I just figured out when I finished this that it's been done before but I'll publish it anyway. :) Hope you like it. It swears and there's some minor war violence, but other than that, pretty clean.

    John’s boots scraped the gravel quietly, turning it over and over itself until a small pile built up under his feet and he brushed it away. His head was numb mainly, but other than that he was lonely, tired, and impatient. But he didn’t say a word. He just stood on the abandoned rode and waited, staring at the ground.

    There was nothing truly spectacular about the rode on which he stood, so there was little to note. It was barren, the dirt a bit damp after heavy rainfall, and it was several kilometers outside of Bristol. The countryside was cold, windy and void of civilization.

    It might also be noted however, that this was a crossroad that John was waiting at.

    He felt a tugging in his chest, a definite soreness in his left shoulder and right leg. He sighed, glancing at the center of the road, where small lines were still evident. He’d made them with his fingers when he’d buried a small box in the muddied soil, brushing the dirt over it with a delicate fondness.

    Now he waited, his sore, exhausted eyes closing briefly, only to open again when the images that flashed in his head were of Sherlock, wonderful, amazing Sherlock, on the ground, bloody, still. _Suicide of fake genius_ rang in his ears like someone were shouting it at him. He felt a knife twist in his heart.

    His breath shuddered and he glanced at the box again.

    Then, he heard it- the fluttering of demonic power, the _whoosh_ as a salesman of hell landed over the heart of the crossroad.

    John had been prepared for this, yes, but the appearance of the being was something he hadn’t counted on entirely. He had known of course, that it would come out of nowhere, almost passing for normal in appearance- but the eyes would be black.

...

   

    He remembered his friend’s shaking hands in Afghanistan as he reloaded his gun, his rapid breaths.

    “Home soon, Johnny boy! God save the bloody queen.” Thomas had laughed genuinely, and John chose to diplomatically ignore the use of the nickname.

    They hadn’t been fighting the other side then. Something much worse. That had become clear three days ago when their own mate had turned to them, black eyes flaring when they’d been green in the past, knifing one of their friends and only leaving when his strangely religious friend pressed a tiny silver crucifix to its flesh. It had left in a cloud of black smoke, their comrade dead.

    If John were to be honest, he had never been so terrified in his life. Now they were firing at their own with no chance of making it back to Britain, and his lovely friend the overly religious optimist, was talking about going home.

    John had leaned over the deteriorating brick of their barricade, and fired- his shot went through the head of the traitor with black eyes; a perfect shot. Then it fired, bullet imbedded in its skull aside, and pierced John’s shoulder.

    The world had gone white with pain. He felt shattered, agonized. He could hear Thomas’s voice, muffled, then a cry, then silent except for his ringing ears.

    His vision was dimming, grey and clouded and he couldn’t make sense of what was in front of him.

    Then a burst of light appeared from nowhere- a spiraling mass of hulking, dazzling, brilliant celestial intent bearing down on the world with decided wrath. He saw enough of the scene around him to know that the black-eyed monsters had perished from the thing. John closed his eyes tight until the light dimmed.

    A face appeared above his, eyes inquisitive and blue, sharp and intelligent. This normal, brown haired creature must be the light, john understood, but how?

    The loose belt of the man’s beige raincoat rested on John’s shirt, coming away with traces of red. The creature who was human but not really- his voice pierced the high ringing in John’s ears for just a moment.

    “The rogue demons are gone. To heal your wound however, would look suspicious. I’ll set you down where your comrades can find you.” The being touched John’s forehead lightly and they were somewhere new. His teeth were gritted against screaming for the pain, but he was still astounded at the new development.

    “How? Who?” He choked out through a haze. The man touched his arm.

    “Castiel.” He said simply. Then, he was gone.

…

    “Bloody _Winchesters! I thought I told you-.”_ The demon stopped short at the sight of John, and he jumped, snapping back into reality as it raced up to meet him.

    “Who the hell are you then, mate?” The demon asked, confused. John crossed his arms. He hated the black eyed bastards and what they’d done. They’d buried plenty of friends of his, there was a score to settle. But not now. This was supposed to work. It had to work.

    The demon was short and unruly, with tendrils of handsome but receding brown hair and a black overcoat over his suit. His eyes, unlike other demons John had seen, we’re glowing red with confusion, making it quite hard for John to focus on what he was trying to say. Then with a blink, they looked perfectly human, glittering and mortal. That wasn’t unnerving in the slightest.

    “Uhm- John Watson. I see you got the message.” He gestured uncertainly to the box, rubbing his aching eyes.

    “Oh.” Said the short Brit with renewed interest.

    “The deal, later. I’ve heard of you. Rescued by heaven’s most frustrating kitten. You caused a bit of an uproar for my boys in Afghanistan. I don’t do deals often now, John. A bit above that. But this, this could get exciting. So why the hell not?” John didn’t scare easy- in fact, John hardly scared at all, but right now his throat was dry and his blood cold. How could this demon possibly know about him?

    “Heard about your friend too.” The demon a grin, sharp and wolf-like.

    “Interesting, that one. Nothing out of the ordinary. Your boyfriend’s completely mortal. Still something funny about him though.” John was rankled by that. _I’m not gay!_   Was on the tip of his tongue, but he shook it off.

    “Who the fuck are you? How do you know that?” The other man gave a bit of a chuckle, kicking the dirt.

    “The name’s Crowley, ya’ prickly little hedgehog. Lately, I go by The King of Hell. Has a nice ring to it.” John couldn’t keep his eyes from widening, which seemed to please Crowley.

    “The deal then.” He said stonily. The demon wrinkled his nose petulantly, but nodded.

    “Only one thing someone like you can be after, I suppose. Bloody romanticist. You want your best friend back so badly- I’d say you want him to be more than your best friend but that’s just my opin-.”

    “How long!?” John snapped.

    “Are you willing to give me for him back?” He finished sharply. Now it was Crowley’s turn to wear a stunned expression. He gave a shocked laugh.

    “Slow down there! How do you know I’ll agree to _your_ terms? A contract appeared in his hand. Not despairingly long, but just enough parchment for it to be ludicrous.

    John swallowed hard.

    “Sherlock back alive. I get a year with him at least. Those are my terms. Accept, or I use the gun in my pocket.” Crowley gave a guffaw.

    “A _gun_? That’ll work.” John stayed icily calm.

    “I heard from a friend that devil’s traps do wonders on bullets. My terms. Do. You. Accept?” The King gave another hair-raising grin, and snapped his fingers. The contract burned to a cinder and the soldier stared at it, obviously crushed.

    “I love fucking with you mortals. You’re just so desperate. It’s adorable.” John sighed miserably.

    “Sherlock…” he started.

    “Just isn’t something I can offer you. Oh, I’d love to, trust me. But for all your talk of believing in the _Great_ Sherlock Holmes, you’ve missed his biggest trick.”

    Crowley came amazingly close then, and alarmingly fast.

    “Did you honestly think he couldn’t cheat death?”

    He burst into black smoke, leaving John alone on the crossroad, with no word to describe what he was feeling just then.

    


End file.
